Healed Bone
by Mrs Dionysius O'Gall
Summary: Tag to 706. "You know, Lisbon, after a bone breaks, they often say that the healed bone is stronger. I think I'll try out my cup tomorrow, see if that's true." A/N: Added a second chapter, Jane's POV later that night.
1. Chapter 1

It had been a satisfying day.

When he first received the assignment, he approached it with some trepidation. He was no stranger to office politics, to government politics, to deep-cover conspiracies. Sometimes he wondered if "The X-Files" wasn't actually a documentary!

By its very nature, the work was often tedious, with few payoffs. Today though, was worth it. Worth the separation from his wife. Worth the disruption to his professional life. Worth the disruption to the office he was temporarily leaving.

Today, he'd taken the first steps in cleaning out a corrupt organization, a huge conspiracy of corruption.

In the semi-darkness of the CBI, Dennis Abbott sat at his new desk, swept clean of all artifacts left by its previous occupant. Having dismissed every single person, the office space was unnaturally silent. By the light of a simple desk lamp, he scanned the notes he had taken throughout the day.

That young married couple? He chuckled. Youthful enthusiasm. Likely he'd recommend they be reassigned somewhere local. Too idealistic and low-level to be involved in the conspiracy. Likewise for the clerical and support staff-if any were involved, they weren't big fish. He'd be keeping his eye on the prize.

The ex-military one, Cho. Ah, a kindred spirit. Not so easy to decipher, and quite likely not as innocent as the Rigsbys. This one would either be trouble or an asset. Picking up a pen, he placed an asterisk next to his name-if he checked out, he could see him going quite far. Actually, he thought, he might be wasted here at the local level. Might pay to see if he could be better used in an expanded role.

The big fish at the top-from Bertram on up-well, he already had them in his sights.

That left only two. Jane and Lisbon.

What to do, what to do...

Well it was obvious-Jane had to go. And had actually gone, did him a favor by leaving the CBI. He'd have to dig further into his history-you never knew, sometimes these odd eccentric characters were very deliberately placed in an organization. Red herrings. Too bad he'd ruined Lisbon...her career was over...guilt by association at the very least. He underlined Jane's name. Twice.

Ah, Special Agent in Charge Teresa Lisbon. All of her five foot and what-three or four inches-reared up to confront him when he'd come in to disband the organization. He chuckled again. There was nothing quite like a surprise raid, and every unit lead was the same. Blustering, self-important-"my people would NEVER..." It was always the same.

But he had a hunch that little FORMER Special Agent in Charge Lisbon would be a challenge. The way he saw it, there were two possibilities. She was either part of the conspiracy, or she was somehow in cahoots with this Jane fellow. Actually, three possibilities-he'd done his due diligence and knew that the relationship between her and Jane was likely more than just platonic. He sighed. She wouldn't be the first honest law enforcement officer done in by a charming con man or con woman.

What to do...what to do with Lisbon, was the question. She'd have to be very carefully handled. One thing was for certain, she was likely the key. She was a common denominator for many of the suspected corrupt members of this Blake gang.

He placed two asterisks after her name...and decided it was time to leave. The day had been long, and though he enjoyed a fruitful raid as much as the next man-he'd been in the DEA after all, where such events were rather commonplace-they did take a toll on a man. It took a lot out of a person to maintain an impassive facade when disrupting the lives of so many people. And today had been a big one.

He'd go back to the hotel, order a drink and then call his wife. She always grounded him.

Five minutes later, he was in his rental, trying to exit to get back to the hotel. As he passed the rear of the CBI Building, something caught his eye.

He circled around the corner, out of sight of the building's rear, and parked the car along the street. Checking that his weapon was at the ready, he stealthily ran back to the building, and peaked around the corner.

A person was rummaging through the trash piled up next to the dumpsters.

He exhaled, and flattened himself against the building. Probably just a homeless person attracted by the bags placed outside the overflowing dumpsters. At any rate, he decided to give the poor guy a break. Anything of value, such as furniture, and anything evidence-related would NOT be in the trash bags. Only things like used office supplies, dirty swiffer pads and floor dust (a cleaning crew had come through shortly after the raid) was likely to be there. Let the poor guy grab a few pens and notepads.

He took one last look just to confirm his assessment. A small slight figure was still going through the bags, flashlight in hand.

"Hmmm, looks like it's a woman," he thought as he drove off into the night.

* * *

><p>Patrick Jane was not a person who celebrated life's happy occasions. Teresa Lisbon was well aware of that fact, though to his credit, he usually wholeheartedly participated in others' celebrations. During their years at the CBI, Lisbon was well aware of this, and in general, the entire team made a practice of tiptoeing around special days and holidays.<p>

Jane's birthday was fast approaching, and out of habit (and during his absence from her life during her Washington years) she hadn't thought too much about celebrating his birthday. Now that they were lovers planning to spend the rest of their lives together (at least from the way Jane talked about the future), she felt she should at least acknowledge this special day. After all, it was the day that the man she loved was born. It felt right to do something to mark the occasion, and it wasn't like she could send flowers to his mother.

So one night between Christmas and New Year's, she brought up the topic. She'd spent some time thinking about what she'd say, how she'd present it.

"Someone's birthday's coming up," Lisbon noted during dinner, "Want me to run interference for you at the office?"

A flash of darkness flitted across his face, before he wryly grinned and replied, "Would you? That would be great. You know how I hate those office celebrations."

"I bet Vega probably gets sucked into party planning along with the secretaries," Lisbon mused. "I'll pass the word on to her, purely as your former CBI boss, that you get really cranky if anyone sings, has a cake or brings you presents."

"Sounds good," Jane agreed, "Pass the butter?"

As she passed the butter to him, he added, "On second thought, place the birthday bug in Wiley's ear. Something tells me he'll let her know."

At the mention of Wiley and Vega, Lisbon smirked, only to receive a "Hey, the unlikeliest places, Lisbon..." in response.

She swatted him with her napkin. "So we're agreed, nothing at the office."

Jane raised his glass in acknowledgement.

Later that evening, Lisbon realized that she still had a dilemma. She really wanted to celebrate Jane's birthday-just the two of them. But she had noticed the brief veil of darkess that crossed his face, and couldn't really blame him. Though she knew about his childhood and doubted he'd had many traditionally happy childhood birthdays, she assumed that as a husband and father, he'd celebrated quite a few. Her heart seized with anguish for him as she imagined his little girl bringing him a handmade birthday card, or fixing him a special birthday breakfast. She imagined the child bringing it up those stairs to her daddy, so he might have a birthday breakfast in bed. And it was inconceivable that he had not gone all out celebrating his wife and child's birthdays. He'd had enough years with his beautiful little family to establish happy traditions.

Maybe, on second thought, she should just say a simple "happy birthday" to him before they left for work, garnished with a quick kiss. She would not bring more pain to him.

But after New Year's, her feelings changed. Over the holidays, Lisbon had finally unpacked all her belongings and while going through her boxes, come across the cup.

She was so relieved that Jane was not there when she went through that last box. Not only did it contain the letters he'd mailed her from the island, but also the cup-his favorite teacup.

Lisbon thought back to the day the CBI was disbanded. What struck her most was not the reminder of her career shattered and lost, but Jane as he left in the elevator, that he was letting go. To her, that meant he was letting go of the possibility of them.

* * *

><p>"It's a waste of time." "We're done. There's nothing more to do here." Jane's words reverberated through her thoughts.<p>

She remembered her profound dismay and disbelief that he was leaving and quitting, but also that he was likely leaving her. And she remembered the moment the cup shattered, when one of Abbott's goons, in his haste, knocked it out of Jane's hands.

She had rarely seen a more horrified look on Jane's face. His cup was his personal talisman. And now it lay shattered, on the floor of the CBI. She recalled how she turned back from the elevator and reentered the bullpen area, only to find that Abbott's goons had already swept up the shards.

A smile broke out on Lisbon's face as she also remembered the aftermath of the teacup. She pretended to leave the building and instead, went around back and meticulously combed through each overflow trash bag until she found the precious pieces. It took hours, and it was beyond dark as she finally found the bag and its contents. The rancid smell of discarded lunch remnants, the dust, the dirt-her aching back-none of that mattered because she'd found the pieces of him.

For months afterward, they remained in a box in her cupboard. Then on one especially sad and lonely night in Cannon River, she pulled out the box and began to dream of putting the pieces together. Much like the life she was trying to reassemble, she wryly thought.

With few visitors, she spent that winter painstakingly practicing the art of ceramic reconstruction. For months it sat on her coffee table as she worked on it during lonely evenings. Each time she touched a piece, she remembered Jane. His lips had curved around this part; his beautiful strong fingers had held that part. As she progressed and a coherent shape took hold, she could more and more see him holding the cup again: lifting it in salute, a prop, a security blanket of sorts. How he must miss it on his island!

The only problem was that though she finally succeeded in reconstructing the cup, thanks to some filler compound and glaze, her own heart was still shattered.

And then for the second time in her life, Dennis Abbott happened and the world changed again.

* * *

><p>She now held the cup in her hands, and it did not look right. It belonged in bigger hands. A birthday boy's hands.<p>

So the night of his birthday, she presented it to him as a gift. Her heart pounded as he looked at the contents of the box. For a moment, she thought she'd made the biggest mistake of her life, because his response was so emotional. She didn't mean to bring him more pain! She only wanted him to know that she, at least, celebrated his existence, that she'd loved him even then, and loved him now. He didn't need to know that she'd gone through the trash for this; that she'd spent many lonely hours reconstructing it-all he needed to know was that because she loved him, she wanted his world to be whole. And with his kiss and his heartfelt thanks, she knew that he got it.

The hitch in his breath, the tremor in his voice-this was the Patrick Jane she loved most.

A few hours later, they lay entwined on his bed. He'd wanted to look at the stars that night, just because. Then they'd gone into the Airstream and had comfort sex, no fireworks, just made love. As she sank onto the mattress, she told him he could ask her to do anything he wanted since he was the birthday boy. But his demeanor was subdued, precisely because of the birthdays he'd had in the past, and she was more than OK with that. She poured all her love into the act, praying he'd forgive her for not seeing that he really did love her all that time she was with Marcus.

Maybe next year, she thought, she'd ask him what his birthdays were like when he was a father. But tonight, it was enough for her to know that he remembered, and that he know that she would always care about what was important to him.

Sated, he stroked her face. "You know, Lisbon, after a bone breaks, they often say that the healed bone is stronger. I think I'll try out my cup tomorrow, see if that's true."

"I thought you didn't believe in frauds in white coats," she murmured.

"True. But I believe in you."

* * *

><p>The next morning, her repair work proved its worth. Not a drop leaked and it was back in its rightful hands, stronger than ever. Hands that she knew had dispatched Red John to the next life. Hands that she'd never seen cradling a newborn, but could imagine their tenderness. Hands that brought her comfort. Hands that brought her to ecstasy. The hands of a good man.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up in the middle of the night, a sleeping Lisbon in his arms.

In many ways, this was the hardest birthday he'd ever had.

It was undeserved.

When he first saw the teacup, for a few seconds, he was awash with love and gratitude as the magnitude and meaning of what she'd done hit him. He'd felt that feeling before-with Angela, and tenfold with Charlotte.

In an instant, the doors to that special wing of his memory palace flung open and he was flooded with memories of his little girl and her crayoned birthday cards. Princesses and dinosaurs wished him a Happy Birthday. He remembered Angela's baked cakes, and telling her that they could afford to order one from the best bakery. Because he deserved it.

At the time, he'd dismissed the princess and dinosaurs and the prattled, lisped "Happy Birthdays" as something he deserved.

Then came that first birthday after Red John. It sent him into the abyss.

He didn't celebrate a single birthday since that day.

But tonight, he was literally rendered speechless. He'd been more than a little worried about what Lisbon had planned. Part of him feared that she'd throw a secret surprise party. Part of him dreaded her gift-he had no idea what she'd gotten him. And then she appeared with the cupcake, with the candle. All he could think was that she was his light. The flame in her eyes was the purest fire and he could not look at her as she presented the cupcake.

"Make a wish," he'd been asked.

A thousand wishes flew through his mind-pictures of what he wanted. Stay with me. Be safe. Don't leave me.

When she presented her gift in its beautiful, whimsical box, he looked at her. And when he opened it, the bottom fell out of his heart.

That moment when he saw the gift was the most exceptional moment of his life, except for the day Charlotte was born. Immediately, he recognized that it represented so much more than the restoration of a beloved object. She'd pieced him together. Piece by piece. From the day she'd helped him up off the floor of the CBI, she'd been piecing him back together.

Even when he'd so cruelly left her to face the Red John fallout, all alone.

Even when she had no idea that she'd ever see him again.

She pieced it together,

At first, he didn't know how to respond to the gift. He didn't deserve the unconditional love in Lisbon's eyes, the kindness in her smile as she encouraged him. He didn't deserve the hours of painstaking effort and the love she'd put into reconstructing his favorite teacup. He didn't even deserve having his Airstream decorated with pretty lights.

She kept the pieces.

She kept the pieces...

Holding her tighter, he brushed his cheek against her hair, drying the tears that had gathered.

He thought about the pieces she'd put back together. For so many years after his family's deaths, he was alone in his bed, or for what passed as one. His previous life, a life shared, became a vast land of loneliness, with sleeplessness as his bed-mate.

And then he met Lisbon, and over time, a very long time, grew to love her, but made excuse after excuse to avoid connection. And each time he crafted an excuse, the look of hurt in her eyes grew, and though denial should have become easier for him, it became increasingly difficult. Especially after he killed Red John, he feared she would look into his eyes and see his corruption. He feared that she'd look at his hands and be afraid of him.

Erica Flynn was right: he was drawn to Lisbon's innate goodness and purity. So why would Lisbon want to be with someone like him? She only took a life to save another. She didn't exact revenge. She believed in something pure, in justice.

He didn't blame her for giving up on him and taking up with Pike. Pike had not strangled the life out of someone with his bare hands.

When she took up with Pike, he thought it might be better for him-he'd at least still have her in his life. But Pike was taking her away, and rather than watch her leave, he came to his senses, and went after her in the nick of time and miraculously, she felt the same way. It almost convinced him that there was a higher power.

He thought about how different his life was since that night on the plane. He couldn't count all the times her mouth kissed his, or all the times her mouth encircled, engulfed him...no. He couldn't count all that. He couldn't count how many times he returned those kisses, how deep and wet and coffee-tinged her mouth was. How the remnants of her coffee combined with the taste of tea in his mouth.

It tasted wonderful.

And with each taste, each touch, each kiss, each smile, she was piecing him back together.

He was a work in progress.

From there, his thoughts drifted to the first time they made love in a Florida hotel: a night that turned back the clock and took him back to being a gawky teenager: shaking, unsure, touching her as if he'd never touched a woman before. And unbelievably, she acted the same way, all shaky hands and trembling voice, tentatively reaching out, even inquiring if she was "doing it right". He was simultaneously exhilarated and frightened when his hands first touched her breasts, doubly so when his mouth first kissed her breast. He was so sure that she would push him away.

But she didn't.

He remembered all the times over the years that he'd thought about how it would be to make love to her. Perhaps in a frenzied rush their first time, followed by hours of unhurried endless sex. He closed his eyes, and held her even closer to him, remembering how grateful and overcome he was after their first time, not wanting to show her lest she think less of him, kissing her sweetly in the hollow of her throat. How lucky he still felt after every time they made love. Because after each time, whatever was holding him together made him stronger.

And now he can't imagine ever being without her again. He's serious when he tells her he's afraid: because if he breaks and shatters again, no one will be able to piece him back together.

This night, she provided comfort to him when they went to bed. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, finally grasping onto his forearms, her sweet, strong legs on his shoulders, as he plunged into her. Told him to forget about her, that this was a night for him. She was his real present.

She's my gift, he thought with a wonder he was not used to feeling. She's mine, all mine.

It still seemed unbelievable. He did not deserve the privilege of burying himself deep inside her body, looking down on her as she arched toward him. He did not deserve the way she looked at him, as she moved up and down on him, and sideways and forwards and backwards, bracing, possessing him in more than body. He did not deserve that she let him touch her.

He was lucky beyond any definition of the word.

* * *

><p>The teacup might be telling him something. Maybe next year, he'll be strong enough to talk about what his birthdays were like when he was a father. He thinks about what he told her: that after a bone breaks, they often say that the healed bone is stronger.<p>

He now knows that this is true.

The next morning, he tries out the teacup at the office. Her repair work holds up. He spends the entire day flaunting the cup, especially in front of Abbott. Lets him see that not a drop is leaking. That what was destroyed is now whole again.


End file.
